Compost

This world is a battleground. I expect to be wounded as I expect the sun to set each night. I expect death as I do the sunrise. It is a necessary truth of this existence. If we live, we must die. There are many things I have needed to let die in me in order to live. My body is a graveyard. At night, the shadows twist the gravestones into monsters. In the light of day my fears turn to daisies who, even in their death, nourish the ground beneath them. I remember -

death feeds growth.